


23 September

by austenfan1990



Series: And Then They Came For Us [1]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6607045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 23rd of September means a great many things to a great many people, especially those at Scotland Yard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	23 September

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/gifts).



> First post-canon _Babylon_ fic ever, posted initially on Tumblr, but was encouraged by the wonderful sharkie, doyen of Liz/Finn fics, to post it here too. Thank you, m'dear. :)

The 23rd of September is unmarked on every calendar on the department floor. It is neither boldly circled in red marker nor is it inputted into anyone’s schedule on their computer. No one has to, because the press has done it for them, building up to the day like an ominous crescendo. For the past six weeks, every newspaper, tabloid and rag in London have featured a column. Initially, it was one every three days. Now it’s one per day.

Tomorrow morning, there are going to be full-page spreads, not to mention front pages marking the first anniversary of the riots. Momentum has built up on social media as well, and numerous hashtags are currently jockeying for pole position on Twitter.

Other observers are busy churning out analyses of the Commissioner’s first year in the job like hotcakes. They all dramatically point out his ‘baptism by fire’ and are varying degrees of accurate and impartial to downright libellous (the latter of which are swiftly nipped in the bud). In the year since Inglis took over, the Met has spruced itself up to a considerable extent, and has tried to rid itself of its worst and most glaring faults. Inglis’ approval rating now hovers just above 65 per cent; an encouraging sign. But all of that can change in a flash.

Only tomorrow will tell whether he’s held up to his promise of a new era of police transparency matched with an uncompromising challenge to lawlessness.

* * *

For thirty-six hours, no one gets any sleep. No one dares to. No one even goes home.

When the morning of the 23rd dawns, Liz and Finn accompany Inglis to the huge press conference at City Hall, and they all brave the crowds and the sudden, unexpected downpour of rain. There are protesters as well, but not in the large numbers they had feared or anticipated. Mirroring last year’s midnight press conference, Liz sits on Inglis’ right. She only speaks when she has to, which is not often, as the Commissioner is fairly at ease in these situations, and she’s become rather grateful for that. Especially today of all days.

Meanwhile, Finn follows the live news feeds on his phone while Mia, standing next to him, keeps an eye on reactions on Twitter.

Liz and Inglis catch up with them later, once they’re safely on their way back to Scotland Yard. Finn and Mia’s body language and the shared looks of relief on their faces are enough to tell them that public opinion hasn’t taken a nosedive in the hour since they took the stage.

The atmosphere has lightened up a notch but is still decidedly tense. Everyone sits around in the Commissioner’s office – but not for long and never in one place – alternately taking sips of increasingly cold coffee and checking their phones. No one eats anything, despite Tom preparing sandwiches, fearing that they won’t be able to keep it down.

Eventually, at around 8 pm, Inglis decides to go home if only to have dinner with his wife before returning to the office immediately afterwards.

Finn calls him soon after he arrives.

‘Yeah, Charles, we’ve had another look through the press coverage. Also Facebook, Twitter…’ (in his sleep-deprived state, he very nearly adds Instagram and shakes his head) ‘…the works. Looks unlikely we’ll be seeing violence on the streets tonight, so you can stay home.’

Inglis lets out a sigh of relief. ‘That’s the best piece of news I’ve heard in the past forty-eight hours.’ He pauses. ‘Two pieces, actually. Thank you, Finn.’

‘Commissioner.’ Inglis hears what sounds like a stifled yawn from the other end of the line.

‘Speaking of home, you should be getting back to yours as well.’

Now it’s Finn turn to pause. ‘Just need to check on something before I do.’

* * *

The 23rd of September is unmarked on every calendar Finn has. It isn’t circled anywhere in red marker and although he does keep a schedule on his computer, he doesn’t note it down there.

He’s bone-weary and exhausted and his footsteps, normally brisk and energetic, seem sluggish against the carpeted floor. For the first time in forty-eight hours, all of the offices here are dark and empty. All except one, the largest one at the far end of the corridor, and in which direction Finn is currently heading.

He doesn’t bother knocking. Normally this would annoy Liz immensely, but on this occasion, she would probably appreciate his rudeness.

Liz isn’t behind her desk. Finn turns his head to see that she’s fallen asleep in one of the armchairs which she’s pushed against the cabinets near the door. It looks distinctly uncomfortable and Liz is in danger of waking up with severe neck ache, but Finn has no doubt that he would have done the same.

Weighing the options of leaving Liz like this, or to risk her wrath and save her neck (quite literally), Finn decides on the latter. He crouches so that his face is level with hers, places a hand on her shoulder and nudges her awake.

‘Liz, wake up,’ he says and shit, he actually sounds gentle. He definitely needs to get some shuteye ASAP. Finn clears his throat and tries again and sounds much more authoritative.

‘Hmm?’ Liz slowly opens her eyes, blinks once or twice, before focusing on him. She lets out a gasp and straightens up – far too quickly.

‘Fuck,’ she hisses, immediately raising a hand to the back of her neck. Finn’s prediction turns out to be correct. Wincing, she looks up at him, her eyes now wide and taking on a slightly panicked expression.

‘What did I miss? Has public opinion done a U-turn? Is London on fire again?’

‘Liz, calm the fuck down. Believe me, you’d know if the city was burning to charred little pieces because I’d be shouting at you to get up. Not taking baby steps and leading you by the h –’ Finn stops, flushes slightly and then gestures vaguely around him. ‘Not doing whatever the hell this is.’

Liz’s eyes are widening again, but this time for a different reason. Finn’s breath catches in his throat as her hand covers his, which is still resting on her shoulder. It distresses him a little to think that this still has such an effect on him. It’s bizarre, especially seeing that they’ve done all manner of things together by this point (kissing, fucking, even sharing the same mug of coffee when they ran out of others) and which, last time he checked, ranked way higher on the intimacy scale. Finn hates it. He loves it.

He doesn’t mark the 23rd of September anywhere because he doesn’t have to. He’s constantly reminded of it every time Liz’s hand brushes against his and deep down, he hopes that he’ll never tire of the sensation.

Outwardly, he says, ‘Stop doing that.’

‘Doing what?’

‘The hand thing. You know I don’t like it.’

‘You basically gave it a welcoming party a few nights ago,’ she replies crisply, but releases him. Finn feels something akin to a stab of regret, but isn’t allowed to dwell on it. He’s caught offguard as Liz pushes him onto his back and straddles him.

‘Thanks for waking me,’ she breathes into his ear. ‘You’re right, the floor is the more comfortable option.’

Finn hums in agreement but stops her as she tries to unbuckle his belt.

‘I love a bit of off-the-clock office sex as much as anyone, but adding sleep deprivation and competitive yawning into the mix isn’t much of a turn on.’ As if on cue, Finn lets out the yawn he’s been holding in since calling Inglis, and Liz inevitably follows suit. ‘See?’

She nods tiredly and slides off him, coming to rest on the floor by his side. Tempting as it is to nod off here, Finn decides that he’s had enough of the department floor, both visually and physically. He clambers to his feet and then pulls Liz up as well.

‘Time to go home,’ says Liz out loud, sounding as if she’s addressing no one in particular.

They sit next to each other in the taxi, both agreeing that they would pass out if they tried walking back to her place (if Finn wasn’t so tired himself, he actually wouldn’t mind carrying her, but there’s no way he’ll ever admit that).

During the trip, Liz’s hand finds its way back into his. This time he lets her and tightens his fingers around hers.


End file.
